


we're made of smoke.

by orphan_account



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Despair, Elliott is a very sad man and I feel like no one talks about it, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, no beta we die like men, oh boy okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes it feels like this was a game in itself, a guess at how long until the façade stays strong.How long until the walls come crumbling down around him, until his own mirage breaks. There’s something comical about it, isn’t there? He chose the name Mirage as a game name, because of his decoys and cloning ability, but damn if it doesn’t fit him well enough outside of the Games too.Because that’s what it all is, really. An illusion, an exhausting one to keep up. A dumbass who takes everyone’s unjust rudeness with an easy grin plastered on his face. It’s better to play dumb, there’s less conflict that way.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt & Pathfinder, Mirage | Elliott Witt & Wraith | Renee Blasey, Mirage | Elliott Witt/Wraith | Renee Blasey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	we're made of smoke.

The bar was dimly lit, yellow lights hung from the ceiling, making the crowded building feel warm although it was freezing outside. 

He’d just won a game, getting by damn near skit free. Medbay hardly put up a fight when he tried to leave after being told he could go, though they recommended him to stay and rest. This was his norm now. Fight, win, celebrate, rinse and repeat every few weeks. 

He’s surrounded by people, former contestants and fans alike, wanting to cheer him on in his winnings, but he’s never felt so alone before. He’s hardly made it through these last few years, and he wouldn’t have without his mom constantly being his number one supporter. Elliott isn’t so sure he’ll even have that much longer, if he’s honest. 

She’s almost forgotten who he is, and the last phone call with her has made that abundantly clear. He needs to quit the Games; he needs to be at home with her. She hardly remembers he’s her son. But being in the ring, the heat of it licking his neck while he tries to out run it, it’s what keeps him going. The adrenaline of it all, knowing if he dies on the field, then _he dies_ — 

He’s brought out the crevasses of his mind by a metal hand clamping down on his shoulder and rocking him a bit, the glow of a bright led screen highlights his face. 

“You did really well out there.” Pathfinder tells him, there was a slight cheeriness to his robotic tone, if possible. The patrons around them roared in laughter, someone must have done something embarrassing during the battle. 

This had become a ritual now; crowds would gather in bars to watch the game after every fight but he couldn’t stomach to watch anymore. Unfortunately, the only reason he was here tonight was to wash his sorrows down with free drinks from the bartender. The alcohol only seemed to quiet his never-ending thoughts for a short amount of time anymore, it served no purpose other than that, it couldn’t numb something that already didn’t feel. 

He gave a weak nod to the MRVN as the smiles of the crowd slowly fade back into thin lines and the laughter dies down, with it the hollowness creeps its way back into his chest, a sinking feeling of sadness washes over him almost instantly. Sometimes it feels like this was a game in itself, a guess at how long until the façade stays strong. 

How long until the walls come crumbling down around him, until his own _mirage_ breaks. There’s something comical about it, isn’t there? He chose the name Mirage as a game name, because of his decoys and cloning ability, but damn if it doesn’t fit him well enough outside of the Games too. 

Because that’s what it all is, really. An illusion, an exhausting one to keep up. A dumbass who takes everyone’s unjust rudeness with an easy grin plastered on his face. It’s better to play dumb, there’s less conflict that way. Pathfinder use to try and mother hen him, bluntly telling people they were being impolite, forcing Elliott to laugh it off and make some joke about not needing to be protected. 

There’s a reason he does all of this, the blood games, the himbo persona, the suaveness he seems to be dripping from his pores. It’s all linked to the impending feeling of complete and total isolation, because realistically, he has no one. Sure, Path is there for him, but a robot can only fill the void for so long. 

He’s made aware of how long he’s been inside of his own mind when the last group of people are putting on their coats and telling him once again, he played amazing today. He wants nothing more than to go back to the compound, take a hot shower, and disappear in the mountain of blankets on his bed. So, he does just that. 

The walk ‘home’ offers no clarity in his mind, though he’s not really sure what it is he’s looking for clarity in. Maybe something more substantial than dopamine from the fear of dying, because while being an adrenaline junkie is fine for now, he’d rather not end up like Octane and blow his god damn legs off from a stunt. 

It feels like all of the reasons he had to keep going are just dwindling down, until one day they’ll hit nothing except the money he earns from it. Just last year he had triple the amount of motivation he had now, and then his girlfriend left him for being _too sick_ , in her words. He knew what she meant, without her having to directly say it. She couldn’t handle this Elliott anymore, and that was okay, he couldn’t blame her. He had morphed into someone else in their time together, mental illness curled its spindly fingers around his throat and pulled him under the same water he had managed to float in for so long. 

Then his mom, her memory is only slipping further from her grasps every day. And even with all of the medical advancements they’ve got in place, there’s no saving her. It took him a while to really come to terms with that, that sooner than later she wouldn’t remember him at all, that she’d think he was some intruder in her home while he was visiting her. 

As much as he likes to believe the Games are why he doesn’t return to Solace, deep down he knows it’s because he’s afraid to watch his mother, his only remaining family member, waste away right before his eyes. And he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

The bitter winter air bit at his skin even through all of his layers, and by the time he reached his room he could hardly feel his fingertips. While in the process of shrugging off his coat, there was a gentle knock on his door, hardly loud enough to hear over the swish of fabric rubbing against itself. 

He knew who it was without needing to open the door. There were only two people in this compound who gave half of a shit about him and one was a robot who was probably exploring the streets in hopes of finding information on himself. 

“Elliott?” Was the only warning he got before the hinges of his door squeaked open, a soft click following not too shortly after. He had half a mind to ask her to leave, he wasn’t sure he could deal with... Whatever _this_ was right now. 

He and Renee had developed some sort of weirder form of friends with benefits. Something that was toeing dangerously close to being more than just that. It had gotten this far because of the times he let his walls down in moments of weakness, and allowed her in. 

“I don’t really feel like talking.” He tells her as he peels off more layers, until he’s stopped abruptly by arms circling around his waist. 

“That’s okay.” Renee mutters into his back, her shoulders relaxing as Elliott starts to soften into her touch. In an odd way, it feels like she knows what he needs at times, like now. He doesn’t need to talk about his feelings, he doesn’t need to cry on her shoulder. He just needs someone to be there, someone to try and hold him together while his falling apart at the seams. 

They stood there for a while, in the middle of his room, just listening to each other breathe. Eventually, Renee loosened her grips, her fingers falling to the hem of Elliott’s shirt. She tugged it upwards and he followed the silent demand, replacing where her hands were with his own. 

The sound of running water fills the small room shortly after the heat of her body is withdrawn from him. He’s a bit hesitant to continue undressing, not for any insecurity with his body, rather the feeling of being so extremely vulnerable. He’s so _naked_ , literally and figuratively. It shouldn’t be something that scares him anymore, they’ve done this same song and dance so many times before but Elliott can’t let go of the mentality that he’s the one who always has to be strong. 

That’s what his entire life has been, up until he met Renee. He had to be the backbone for everyone, he had to take every blow that was aimed at his friends and family. So, he’s still not sure how this works, he doesn’t know how to be taken care of. 

“C’mon.” She says from the bathroom doorway, already having got undressed. Her hair is down and falling over her shoulders, small beauty marks litter her body from her neck down. Elliott’s seen her naked hundreds of times by now, but she still manages to make his breath get caught somewhere in his throat. 

Like a lost puppy, he follows her into the steam filled room. The air is sticky and hot, but the floor beneath them is freezing, forcing cold chills up their spines. Renee steps into the shower first, pulling him in by his wrist, pressing the front of her body to his while the water runs over them. He needed a shower; he was still covered in the dried blood and dirt from the Games, normally he’d have taken one as soon as it was over, but showers have grown to be exhausting anymore. He puts it off for as long as he can stand the grime sitting on his skin. 

Small hands that are lukewarm at best press into his back. Her fingers move in small circles, nails occasionally dig into his flesh. Eventually, she eases her body from his and grabs a bottle of something and empties it into her hands. He makes a mental note to replace whatever it is. Soon enough, his scalp is being massaged and the sweat that was caked to it starts to melt away. She’s staring at him like he might disappear if she looks away, and when she notices he’s caught her, she gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Renee rinses his hair and lathers his body in soap, scrubbing away the blood on his neck and chest, the dirt under his nails, taking time to wash her own hair and body while the suds slowly slide down his legs. Normally he’d put up some sort of fight, say he doesn’t need to be babied like this, but he’s too worn out. 

Once they’re both clean, Elliott rests his hands on either side of Renee’s face, thumbing away the droplets that lay on her cheeks. An unspoken thank you lingers in the thick air around them. She gives him that same sad smile as before, and he can’t bear to look at it anymore. 

“Let’s get out.” It’s a weak attempt at an escape from dull blue eyes boring holes through him. Try as she might, but in the harsh reality of it all she’s just as hollow as he is. They’re all they’ve got, and she may be off worse than he is. They don’t talk about _this_ much, especially because talking only recently became a thing they do, this started off as nothing other than lust. A way to burn through the high after a game, something quick and nasty. It was never meant to go soft. 

They dry off in silence, and get dressed the same way. The heat in the compound kicks on as they make their way to the small bed. There’s a window behind it that lets cold blue light cascade over them from the street lamps outside of the building. 

Renee has designated herself as the big spoon, her skin is cold but she still radiates warmth as she clings to the back of his body. One hand tangling itself into his hair, the other intertwining with one of his own. They lay like that until the moon rises up high into the night sky, and the snow starts to cover the ground. 

She must think he’s asleep when it’s nearing three, because faintly she promises him something that was only supposed to fall onto ears, deafened by sleep. 

“We’ll be okay one day.” 

And maybe, he thinks, one day they will. He’d like to imagine a life where it doesn’t feel like his head is barely above water, with something latching on to him and threatening to pull him under. And, just maybe, he’ll be fortunate enough the share that with her. 

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii, i hope you enjoyed and it made your heart hurt (only a little)  
> i was talking to a friend about how everyone kinda portrays elliott as a dumbass who is nothing but sunshine and happiness and how if you pay attention, he's obviously very, very fuckin sad. especially after the whole phone recording thing by the mirage voyage? that shit broke my god damn heart.  
> so i felt inclined to write some angst about our boy and his not-so-girlfriend girlfriend renee.  
> also! i do apologize if there's any weird formatting happening, for some reason when i copy & paste from word into ao3 there's always something messed up with the text. sorry if i didn't catch some while fixing it!


End file.
